


it should have been me

by brampersandon



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Character Study, Juventus Turin, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-25 00:53:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16186682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/pseuds/brampersandon
Summary: Juventus is the greatest dream there is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [selenedaydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenedaydreams/gifts).



> happy last minute sub, teo! ♥
> 
> title comes from _monsoon_ by hippo campus.

His kit hangs in the hallway leading to the youth squad offices and dressing rooms, framed and scrawled on — a reminder to all of them, every boy and girl who runs down these halls with an impossible dream, what they can become if they put in enough hard work. What nobody ever tells them is that there's no small amount of luck involved too. They're fortunate enough to be from Turin, to spend their childhoods supporting the greatest club there is, to walk the same training grounds as their heroes. But it comes with its own unique struggle.

There's a difference, Claudio knows there is, between taking the first steps of your career at your tiny hometown club and taking them at Juventus, the place where most everyone wouldn't mind to eventually land. It's difficult to break in, to get promoted, to stay. There's no shortage of talent from outside the city limits that they'll bring in, there's less reliance on their youth.

Cynics like to say that he's an anomaly. They simply don't make footballers like him anymore. A club as large as Juventus won't treat any young player the way they treated him. These days, it's all money and fame, nobody gets to live out that same dream he did. 

But even the most cynical among them wouldn't tell a child to kill that dream.

At least a few times during the season, he pops in to visit them, signs their glossy team cards and the shin guards they'll outgrow. Tells them how lucky they are. Tells them to enjoy themselves, listen to their coaches, learn as much as they can from each other. 

There's always at least one kid who will ask him, bright eyed and endlessly hopeful, if he thinks they have what it takes to make it to the first team one day. He always ruffles their hair, tells them yes, if they keep working hard and believe in themselves, anything's possible. It isn't a lie. 

After all, Juventus is the greatest dream there is.

 

 

 

 

He remembers everything about his one season spent away from Turin in painstaking detail.

Sneaking his Juventus shin guards into his bag and wearing them beneath his Empoli socks. Calling home nightly, crying weekly, despite being a fully grown man. How he tried his hardest but never managed to feel anything approaching genuine love or pride when he took to the pitch for them. How it was the first time football felt like just another job, how selfish and stupid he told himself that was, how much he was squandering this opportunity to finally play on a first team. Sharing a flat with Sebastian and spending countless evenings after training next to him on their cramped balcony, eating their shoddy homemade dinners off plastic plates and talking about their dreams for the future. Somehow, it always led them back to Turin. 

How on the final matchday, he found himself cheering for Catania's draw against Roma to scrape out the one point they needed to avoid relegation, even if it was at the expense of his own team.

It's not that he ever disliked Empoli, or that they treated him badly. It's simply that two days later, his father called, told him Ranieri was bringing him home. 

Less than a year away in total, but he thinks about it constantly— because if Juventus was on his mind the whole time, did it even count? 

 

 

 

 

It would be easy to let it all go to his head. Juventus returning to their winning ways, anchoring the midfield, carving out his place on the national team, being lauded as the talisman of Turin. It would be too easy to get caught up in it and assume that this is the way it will be forever, even as he gets old and achy and gray at the temples. Glory, glory right up until he retires draped in black and white, every hardship and sacrifice worth it for the life of a prince.

Then Alessandro goes.

It's the worst feeling he can remember, sitting in the locker room and watching him cry. Seven months of poised composure, and then this: His idol, his hero, his favorite, head in his hands and back heaving as he sobs on his bench. 

Claudio makes his way through the small group huddled around him, wedges himself in the seat next to him and tucks his head in close. Whatever comforting nonsense he could murmur gets rendered ineffective the second he hears Alessandro repeating, so quietly it could be to himself, "I don't want to go."

It's not shocking. None of them ever assumed that he did. But hearing him finally admit it is something else entirely.

 

 

 

 

"Why don't you retire?"

Maybe it's a stupid question, but it's one Claudio asks anyway, sitting cross legged on his hotel bed in Kiev the night before their quarter-final. 

Choppy and pixelated on the screen in front of him, Alessandro shrugs while taking a long drink from his glass of milk. "I'm not ready yet. I want to keep playing. Are you calling me old?"

"Yes," Claudio deadpans, "Ancient. Decrepit." He picks at the plush comforter and tries again. "But you could have retired at Juventus, I don't understand—"

He laughs so hard he briefly moves out of frame. "You think that was the kind of retirement I'd want? You know me better than that."

He does. He knows Alessandro wouldn't take something forced on him like that. He wouldn't want to end his career spending the better part of the season waiting on the bench, legs restless, itching to get out there and play. He'd never go quietly, and they made him. But at the same time, Claudio doesn't know how to explain to him that this seems like turning down the greatest gift that he could have been given, even if he didn't like the way it was wrapped. 

"Maybe you can come back."

"Oh?"

"Not right away."

"Mm."

"After you spend a few more years in Germany, or Japan, or America, or wherever—"

"God, why do you think I'd go to Germany?"

"I'm sure they'd take you back for a season so you could—"

"Claudio."

He snaps his mouth closed, that edge creeping into Alessandro's voice, less his friend, more his captain who wants him to shut up and listen. Even if he's not his captain anymore, it still works.

"I'm flattered you think I'll still be able to bend my knees in a few years," he says, smile spreading across his face as his tone smooths out again, "But you don't get it. Let it go. Okay? Please."

 _I'll never get it,_ Claudio thinks petulantly as his head thunks back against the headboard in defeat. He knows exactly how childish it would sound, so he says nothing. He should be asleep anyway. He should be focusing on their match, not on a future entirely out of his control, not on the sudden transition from a club's idol to just another man. He should let it go, but it unsettles him in a way he can't quite describe.

 

 

 

 

The final is a disaster in slow motion. Claudio can't fault Giorgio for starting the match despite the pain in his thigh, and he can't be angry with Thiago for having to be carted off the pitch — football, at the end of the day, relies on luck just as much as it does skill and dedication. They walked onto this pitch with the winds turned away from their favor; they were never going to win them back. 

Still. As he watches Giorgio limping off and Thiago crying on the stretcher, as he looks around at the grand stage this is all occuring on, he thinks, _I never want that to be me_. A uniquely selfish thought in the middle of the first international final of his career, possibly the last, but it rings through Claudio clear as a bell. If there ever comes a point where he can't trust his own body. If it's ever in the team's best interest that he isn't on the field. He'll listen, he'll do what's right, even if it hurts.

Leo cries openly on Sebastian afterward, then on Gigi when Sebastian's efforts to comfort fall on deaf ears. They all shed their fair share of tears in the aftermath, some more than others, but nobody quite like him. It's a shock to the system. Claudio can't reconcile it with the brash, bombastic young defender who never hesitates to bark motivation at all of them. He's still crying on the bus back to the hotel, in the elevator, down the hall as Gigi ushers him to his room. He looks younger than twenty-five, small and miserable, and for the first time Claudio thinks he may actually have a heart that can break.

 

 

 

 

He blinks across the table at Agnelli, unable to shake the feeling this is a funny joke Alessandro set up before his departure.

"I'm a midfielder."

"I'm aware."

"That jersey doesn't go to midfielders," he goes on. "Not here. It's for a striker."

"It's for someone who embodies the spirit of Juventus," Agnelli says, looking some combination of amused and taken aback by the fervor behind Claudio's words. "Don't be so old-fashioned, Principino."

He tries to imagine it, taking his place at the center of the pitch with the number ten stamped across his back. His name above it in place of the most familiar block letters of his childhood. It's not that he thinks he doesn't deserve it, it's just— not right. Anyone having that number, but maybe especially him. Like a step into shoes that wouldn't quite fit. 

He declines more politely the second time, says he's grown very attached to the number eight. That's not untrue.

 _It feels different without you_ , he texts when he knows it's the middle of the night in Sydney and Alessandro is fast asleep. _It feels wrong_.

They switch off. Alessandro will wake up just as Claudio's turning in, but he won't wait until a safely late hour to respond to him. He's never had that kind of tactful caution in his life. He'll tell Claudio he's being dramatic, as if _he_ was ever anything but when it came to Juventus. He'll tell him the man doesn't make the club, it's growing pains, he'll get over it. He'll be telling himself that too.

 

 

 

 

"Be gentle with yourself," his father tells him. It's something he's repeated throughout the years, beginning as soon as it became clear that he was never going to grow taller or pack on any more muscle. Claudio doesn't like being made to feel fragile, he knows he isn't, but as he works through an aggravating injury at the beginning of a new season the words start to bear more weight than before.

Despite his setbacks, he continually sees more of the pitch than before. Nothing seems to keep him down for very long, and he always comes back stronger. Anyone would forgive him for beginning to think himself invincible.

 

 

 

 

They have to do better than they did four years ago. Failing twice in a row isn't an option. Not for Italy. Not for Italians.

It's a profound and profoundly misguided hope that explodes out of his chest as he smashes the ball into England's net. It takes more than just one good match to win the World Cup, Claudio knows that, but it's his first World Cup goal — if he can't take that as a good omen, if he can't use it to catapult their belief in themselves, then what's the point of it all?

 

 

 

 

 _It wasn't your fault_ , they all tell him in turn. There are a million more reasons why they're packing their bags and leaving Brazil early — Marco insists with all the fervor of his years that the whole thing was rigged from the start, probably some dirty money behind that referee. Even if there wasn't, they shouldn't have let their anger get to their heads. They should've been able to score before any of that shit went down. On and on. Giorgio remains stonily silent.

They sit next to one another on the flight back, a mutual understanding between them that this isn't to be discussed or debated. They can let each other wallow in their own self-pitying misery until it finally transmutes into something a little less pathetic.

Halfway through, Giorgio pushes the divider between their seats up, wraps his arm under Claudio's and intertwines their fingers.

They still say nothing, but stay like that for the remainder of the trip.

 

 

 

 

There's a certain amount of trepidation that comes with Allegri's announcement. After all their success under Conte, finding anyone to replace him feels like an impossible fit. Claudio's certain he's not the only one concerned that they'll lose some magic they've been clinging onto, bomb out of every competition and find themselves struggling at mid-table again.

In their first meeting as a full team, after the whole lot of them have returned from their extended holidays, he stands in front of them with his hands clasped behind his back. "I greatly admire what Antonio has done," he says, "But I believe he didn't draw anything out of Juventus that was not already there. He simply taught you how to use it."

Claudio looks sidelong at Andrea, who hasn't bothered to hide a single shred of fondness for the man since the announcement was made — so of course he's grinning, even with his foot still in a walking cast. He checks Stephan to his other side instead, knows they have similar temperaments and superstitions, for better or for worse. And while there's still a small amount of suspicion in the way Steph's eyes are slightly narrowed, he mostly looks thoughtful. Like he's open to believing this.

"I know that I am not him," Allegri goes on, "But I will do exactly the same thing he did. I'm not Juventus. You are Juventus. You're champions at your core. I'll make sure it stays that way."

There's a brief pause, like nobody's sure if they should applaud that rousing speech, before he smacks his palm back against the whiteboard behind him. "Let's get to work," he barks, and turns to begin drawing out a formation.

 

 

 

 

 _You are Juventus_ , Claudio repeats to himself nightly, the mantra of a crazed obsessive.

He's always known that, but it's good to hear it from someone else.

 

 

 

 

Even now, the summer of 2006 is fresher than any other in his memory. Every turn left indelible marks on him. Sitting at the breakfast table with his father when the news that had been brewing for the better part of the year finally broke and the sentence came down. Crying for hours in his bed, feeling much younger and stupider than twenty. Watching his heroes shake off their demons, keep their heads high and bring the World Cup home anyway. Getting pulled into the Primavera offices and told he would be promoted to the senior team effective immediately. 

His biggest dream, his life's ambition, coming to fruition out of darkness. The irony has never been lost on him.

But that's exactly why he's never questioned his place in Juventus. If he was born into this club, came to every match he could, worked his way through its ranks, followed them down to hell, spent the entirety of his scant time away thinking only of them, why wouldn't he stay there until he dies?

Even with that assurance, it isn't that he feels like he's truly made his mark as an indispensable organ in the Juventus system until he realizes, match after match, he's the one out there on the field.

 

 

 

 

He only misses four games that season. Would've been three if he hadn't been banned from the Coppa final, where he sits just behind the bench and reverts to his ten-year-old self, the most ardent Juventus supporter in the whole of Stadio Olimpico. Allegri doesn't count him out for anything unless he absolutely has to, cards stacked up against his name or tired legs, and for the first time Claudio's certain he's here to stay. Forever. 

Strangely, the one standing alongside him every time without fail is Leo. Their tallies align perfectly, the same number of games played, the same exhaustion overtaking them when it's finally all over. There's nothing quite like that feeling of pushing their bodies to the absolute limit, playing until they physically can't anymore, but it doesn't come without repercussions. 

Maybe that's why Leo ends up in his bed after their disastrous result in Berlin. The two of them lay side by side, eyes closed, breathing even. Eventually Leo's fingers find his, tangle together, squeeze.

"I just wanted to win the treble."

Somehow, it makes Claudio laugh. He rolls onto his side with great effort, props his head up on one hand to look down at Leo. It's funny, he thinks. They all love Juventus, of course they do, but he doesn't think anyone else feels it quite as hot in his blood as Leo does. If only he'd grown up closer to Turin, maybe they would've found themselves sitting close to one another in the stands as children, clawed their way through Primavera together. 

He leans down, presses his lips to the furrowed skin between Leo's eyebrows until it smooths out. With the frustration and rage drained from his face, he only looks lost.

That's enough to breathe a little life into Claudio's aching body. He crawls on top of Leo, straddles his hips for a moment before giving up and letting the full weight of his body drop down onto him. Leo's hands slide down his sides, up under the hem of his shirt. They settle against the dip of Claudio's lower back as Claudio rests against him.

"Fuck the treble," he murmurs as he leaves a line of kisses across Leo's jaw. He starts to say something about how as long as they're both here, there'll be another opportunity for a treble, there has to be, they're just that good, but it dies in his throat as Leo fists a hand in his hair and captures his mouth. 

He shouldn't have assumed they'd both be too tired to do anything about it tonight.

"Fuck me," Leo hisses when he bites at his throat, all sharp edges and demands to mask the broken notes in his voice. 

Claudio does, rolls him onto his stomach and plasters himself against his back, cups his palm over Leo's mouth when he starts to sob out loud in a gesture that's not about courtesy for their neighbors at all. He knows what Leo needs. It's what he needs too.

 

 

 

 

There's a fascinating phenomenon in football that Claudio always thought he had a pretty firm grasp on, but it becomes clearer than ever that summer.

Everyone wants to do well for their club. That's a given. Doing well means guaranteeing playing time, racking up a nice number of goals and assists, garnering the love of the fans, becoming integral to the team, not having to worry about being sold on a whim and summarily replaced. But doing well— doing really well, _incredibly_ well, means attention from foreign media and scouts. Means rumors. Means offers to corroborate those rumors.

It's like nothing he's ever experienced. Every other day his father forwards him another proposal and calls him to talk it over, as if those discussions ever last longer than five minutes on a good day when Claudio's feeling particularly patient. He might as well not go on holiday at well and just spend the long summer camped out in his father's office, hands outstretched, waiting for the next ridiculous opportunity.

Clubs that have casually inquired after him for years are suddenly putting real terms and conditions and numbers on the table. New clubs crawl out of the woodwork in droves. Some are so outlandish Claudio refuses to believe they're real — there's no way the club that just defeated them in the Champions League wants to spend _that_ much on him — but others genuinely intrigue him.

"I'm not really considering it," he assures them when he returns poolside after another call with his father about Manchester United. They come like clockwork, to the point where Leo and Andrea know it's time to refresh their drinks when his phone rings. 

"Then stop taking calls like you're considering it," Leo mumbles around his straw, though most of the venom that could be in those words is diluted by rum. 

Giorgio is the only one who seems unbothered. He cuts a clean line through the water, rests his forearms on the edge of the pool and looks up at all of them. "Talking about it doesn't necessarily mean considering it," he says to Leo, then turns his attention to Claudio. "Are you using it to negotiate a new contract?"

Ever the level-headed businessman. The corners of Claudio's mouth lift as he shrugs. "Maybe."

"That's a yes." Giorgio kicks off from the pool wall and backstrokes away from them.

 

 

 

 

It's not all smoke and mirrors. He _is_ genuinely hearing some of them out. Obviously he has no intention of actually taking any offer, but it is interesting to him, having them so persistent for the first time in his career that they're willing to counter once, twice, sometimes three times. 

The tiniest corner of his brain tells him that it wouldn't be unheard of, wanting a new challenge after nearly twenty years, being intrigued by the prospect of a fresh start.

That corner of his brain is a lying bastard, of course, and he cuts it off immediately.

Turns out, of course, outside forces aren't the only ones who kept an eye on him over the season. Those much closer to home are just as aware of his importance, and just as willing to act on it. A little more than a week before they're due to report back for preseason, he sits in Beppe's office and goes over yet another thick stack of papers. Unlike the others he's combed through at his father's side this summer, this one makes a warm smile crawl across his face. Beppe mirrors it. 

"Five more years," he says, "At least."

Claudio puts pen to paper. Signs his heart over to Juventus, again, always.

 

 

 

 

The previous season's brilliance means nothing if they don't deliver again. That's simply the way of football, always has been and they all know it, but they feel it acutely after losing the first two matches of the season. It's far from the end of the world, Claudio tries to rationalize, but he's never been rational about Juventus in his life.

He's filled with fire when he takes the pitch for the first time against Chievo. His mascot is a sweet girl with glasses, short for her age but boundlessly enthusiastic, and as they linger in the tunnel she stares at Gigi like he's a god. Claudio feels a sudden spike of fondness in his gut, nostalgia for when he was in her place, renewed insistence that this is who they do this for. Nobody came here to see them lose again. He won't allow it.

Unfortunately, it's not up to him. One goal down and shortly after the half, he knows he can't keep going. The same pain in his thigh that's been bothering him since the Supercoppa builds until he can't ignore it anymore. Not just a lingering ache, a stiff muscle that'll sort itself out if he just presses on. An actual problem that needs to be dealt with. He grimaces when he signals for the change, gives Paul a weak high-five as they switch out. 

Paulo ends up netting the penalty that gets them the draw, thank God, but in the end, that's not the point. Claudio lays on the physio's table, hands laced behind his head, and feels out the symbiosis. Juventus winning nearly everything there is to win last season doesn't matter if they fall on their own sword this season. Scaling his own personal heights and cementing himself into the club's present and future last season doesn't matter if he ends up too injured to play this season. 

When he thinks, _I have to get healthy for Juventus_ , he isn't thinking it in the same way any other injured player would. Not because he has to get healthy to lend the team his skills and help them win. He has to get healthy because if he doesn't, neither will she. They'll both languish and die together. Juventus is, he is; he is, Juventus is. No way around it at this point. Not that he'd want one if there was.

 

 

 

 

"You're crazy," Leo says plainly when he tries to explain all of that, and really, he's one to talk.

Plus, he's not. He finally makes his comeback one month later and they're in fourteenth place. He's not crazy at all.

 

 

 

 

By the time the holidays roll around, he's been back on his feet for two months and they've only lost once. They're steadily climbing their way back up, and Max implores them all to use the break to rest their bodies and minds — they've all been working themselves to death to salvage the season. He doesn't want them to overthink it too much or do anything outlandish — _no skydiving, I will find you and kill you myself_ , he says offhand to Paul and Paulo who feign perfect innocence. Just relax. Or, since that's not really what they're born and bred to do, just do their best to try.

"Fuck, I hope he considers getting wasted in Malta relaxing," Leo mumbles on their way out. He inclines his head toward Andrea, the worst kind of grin in place. "Does he, Barza?"

"Why would I know that," Andrea says flatly. His face gives absolutely nothing away, even as Leo elbows him in the ribs and teases him for being the manager's pet — right up until he cracks, throws an arm over Leo's shoulders to pull him down into a headlock. "I'm never telling you shit again," he hisses, but three days later he'll wind up polishing off a whole bottle of wine himself and regale them with more stories of Pistoiese, and they all know it.

 

 

 

 

It's bad. 

Claudio knows it's bad. Immediately. 

He wraps both hands around his knee on instinct, immediately lets go when it sends a jolt of pain all the way up his thigh and down his calf that's enough to make him have to blink pinpricks of darkness from the edges of his vision. He lets gravity push him flat onto his back, grass brushing against his cheeks and sky churning above them. There was a pop, he knows he heard it, there was definitely a pop as he went to the ground. He focuses on making himself breathe through the pain. He can hear Sami shouting at the referee to stop play. He knows someone will come for him soon.

"Can you put weight onto it?" one of the medics asks him, and despite himself, despite the searing pain, he laughs.

"I don't want to try."

They make him try anyway, and it feels almost fine when he eases up, but the second he tries to walk forward his left leg crumples. The medics on either side catch him, and then there's the stretcher, the faces of his teammates above him as they lay him down again. 

Gigi reaches out, runs his fingers through his hair as they lift him up. Andrea pats the side of the stretcher. Nobody tells him he's going to be okay. Nobody says anything at all.

 

 

 

 

Surgery goes well, which he knows isn't necessarily a given and definitely something he should be grateful for, but it's hard to feel anything but bitter, resigned defeat when they tell him the cautious estimate is six months of recovery time. It's important to take it slow, all of the doctors and Juventus medics and even his own father repeat that to him over and over. Especially with an injury like this, if they rush any part of it he's highly likely to aggravate it, and the worse it gets, the less likely he is to come back at all.

It should scare him into being good, going with all of their orders and instructions, but part of Claudio is still a petulant child deep down. He doesn't want to use a walking crutch. He doesn't want to spend as much time resting as he has to. He doesn't want this to be happening to him. 

 

 

 

 

His father drives him to Vinovo, ostensibly to say hello to the team for the first time since his surgery, but they both know the real reason.

When he hobbles into the building, every television is showing Napoli at Roma. Hardly anyone outside is pretending to focus on their recovery session as the minutes tick down. Nothing is guaranteed, there's still a small chance they could slip up and Napoli could end up with the Scudetto— but then Nainggolan bangs in his last minute goal, and the whole place erupts.

Claudio lets Giorgio support him while he briefly ditches his crutches to tug on their celebratory shirt, joins them for champagne and photos and raucous singing in the dressing room. He shouldn't feel as melancholy about it as he does — the win is just as much his as anybody else's — but there's something wan about his smile. Between missing time during their early season struggles, having to stay home and watch the late game loss to Bayern, and now, sitting through their celebrations with an ever present dull ache in his knee, it's been his worst season to date, and he's exhausted by it.

Gigi settles next to him on the bench, already a shade past tipsy, and cuffs his chin with one hand. "You know," he says as he leans in, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, "I've told them we should etch your name into this trophy when we get it." When he tries to laugh it off, it only makes Gigi throw an arm over his shoulders and jostle him, voice growing louder and more insistent. "Honestly! This one is yours."

"You're sweet," Claudio says, his eyebrows raised, "And stupid. I don't think so. It's been a hard one for me."

"Ah, well, that's true." He's acquiesced, but he has his face drawn down in his faux philosopher way, and the proffered cigar he takes from Paratici only enhances that look. "It was a hard one for the old lady as well. But here you both are." And then he grins sidelong at Claudio and ruffles his hair.

Flush rises in Claudio's cheeks and it has nothing to do with the overly affectionate kiss Gigi plants there a moment later. He's right, the bastard, he always is. Here they both are. Juventus rises grand and glorious from her struggles; so will he.

 

 

 

 

"Hey, idiot. Quit that."

Claudio turns over his shoulder, glowers at Leo still sitting on his couch with a Playstation controller in his lap. "I can get my own water, _mamma_. I do it all the time when you aren't here."

Which is never, these days.

"Don't care. Sit your ass down."

He makes a show of rolling his eyes and huffing out a huge sigh, but he returns to the living room anyway and eases himself down on the opposite end of the couch. "Much better," Leo says before popping up and making quick work of getting a glass for each of them. He even gives a grandiose bow when Claudio thanks him. Ridiculous.

He dims the lights and grabs a spare pillow before settling back down, closer to Claudio this time. Within a few minutes he's somehow convinced him to lay down, prop his left leg up and rest his head in Leo's lap while he figures out where they left off in Mad Men.

The most irritating thing about all of this is how good Leo is at taking care of others. Sure, his bedside manner may leave something to be desired, but he thinks nothing of dropping everything to take up a post in someone else's house, make sure they can get around fine and get around for them when they can't. Claudio presses his cheek against the pillow, feels Leo's knuckles brushing against the crown of his head. 

Leo's had a lot of practice at it, he figures. There was Gigi with his back, and Giorgio with his calf, and Andrea with his foot. He never seems to get injured himself; if he does it's only for a few days here or there. He says it's because he eats his vegetables. Claudio knows it's because he's just lucky to be hardier than most.

He's grateful for it. Really, he is. It's just hard to admit that he needs it at all.

 

 

 

 

The night before the final match of the season, Leo lays him out on his good side and curls up behind him to sleep, both arms wrapped around his chest and chin tucked over his shoulder.

"Is this okay?"

He shifts the hip he's laying on a little, nods. "Doesn't hurt at all," he says. It's true — he's amazed by how quickly the body patches itself up, how it only hurts during his physical therapy now, normal tasks aren't as insurmountable as they were a month ago. He doesn't have to lay stock still on his back and drift in and out of hazy painkiller dreams. He can sleep like a normal person, safe in someone else's arms.

After a few minutes, when Leo's breathing is still too shallow for him to be asleep, Claudio figures he's allowed to try.

He rocks his hips back, listens to Leo suck in a harsh breath through his nose and tighten his grip. He does it again, more deliberately this time, and Leo's forehead hits his shoulder. "Go to sleep," he sighs. "Don't be a tease."

"You can fuck me like this," he says easily and tries not to grin at the groan it pulls out of Leo. "You _should_ fuck me like this."

"Your knee—"

"Is fine if we stay like this. Look." He unwinds one of Leo's arms from around his midsection, moves his hand down the side of his body until it rests on his thigh. Leo takes the hint, hooks it under his thigh and lifts gingerly, experimentally. "See? All good."

He's so quiet, but he doesn't take his hand away. Claudio gives him a moment and then cranes his neck to look back at him. He's not prepared for that sort of look over Leo's face — open and desperate and wanting, sure, he's seen that plenty of times, but never mixed with such caution and concern, especially never for him. 

"Please," he hears himself say. Like his heart's cracked open and spilled it out of him.

He does, in the end, of course he does. It's a slow, tender thing — less fucking, more rolling his hips with a constant, steady pressure deep into him. He doesn't stop asking if his leg is okay, even after Claudio comes untouched all over his stomach. He's insufferable, he really is, but then he nudges his nose behind Claudio's ear to kiss the tattoo there and presses his hips flush against Claudio's ass and shudders out his name when he comes. It's better than anything Claudio can conjure up in recent memory.

"I'll score a goal for you tomorrow," Leo mumbles into his pillow once they've settled back in for sleep. "Watch me."

Claudio's heart stutters, just as it always does anytime Leo gives him a completely unsubtle reminder of how soft he truly is deep down. "Focus on defending," he says, and when Leo turns his cheek away from the pillow he's grinning lazily.

 

 

 

 

It's utterly insane of him, going over the call up list nightly as if trying to find that Conte had accidentally left a place open he could take. As if he could pull his own weight there even if he did. As if sheer desire alone could speed up this healing process. 

This is a squad all Italians should be proud of, pundits are saying over and over. Gone are the days of stalwart and efficient defensive football; they're aggressive, fluid, gorgeous in their attack, even with a squad cobbled together from all corners of the earth. Conte's made something out of nothing, they say. It must be something he inspires, this ability to play beyond their means even with their backs against the wall.

Claudio wants to be part of that mounting miracle. Desperately.

 

 

 

 

Why it's Leo taking the penalty is anyone's guess, but any panicked doubts cluttering Claudio's mind get swept away the second he buries it in the back of the net. He pulls a pillow over his face and screams, like he's right there with them burying his face between Leo's shoulder blades as they all pile on him. 

 

 

 

 

Claudio feels an eternity older by the end of the penalty shootout, some reserve of energy in him depleted even if he wasn't standing on that pitch. The camera pans to center field, where Andrea's on his knees, alone, hunched over. 

He clicks the television off on instinct, unable to look, and ten seconds later turns it back on, unable to look away. It's a raw pain he remembers all too well, the feeling of being _so close_ and having luck turn against them — it hurts to see it scrawled across their faces. He curses the camera for lingering on their ruddy, tear-streaked faces but curses it more when it pans away to the celebrating Germans. He wants to be there. He wants nothing to do with it. He wants to help. He wants to lock himself away and pretend it never happened.

 

 

 

 

Paulo texts him just a couple days after the match, blunt and wheedling as ever — _come to Forte Village with me, I'm so bored_ — and really, it's not like he has anything better to do.

They've both had long, listless summers, though Paulo's has involved significantly less rehabilitative therapy. Still, being excluded from their respective tournaments means a lot of time to do absolutely nothing and stew in their own feelings — better to do it together, Paulo declares.

Claudio's come to adore him over the past year. It wasn't even a slow creep. It happened immediately, even before he officially signed, on the flight back from Munich where he happily ignored all of them licking their wounds to sit down next to him and tell him how beautifully he played, how badly he wanted them to win. Paulo's one of a kind, intensely effervescent in a way not many of them are, and somehow Claudio thinks it isn't only a function of his age.

"If I got injured that bad, I'd quit going to the gym and just let myself get fat and lazy," he says nonchalantly, poking one finger against Claudio's abs after they make their way down to the beach. "Seriously, have you been resting at all?"

"Yes," Claudio lies.

"Uh huh. Hey, let me see your knee." He dutifully obliges, unwinds the towel from around his waist as he settles onto the lounge chair.

He doesn't know what he's expecting, exactly, but whatever it is, it definitely _isn't_ Paulo leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss to the scar there. He flicks his eyes up toward Claudio's incredulous face and grins, somehow sweet and salacious all at once. "For getting better soon," he says. "We need you."

 

 

 

 

One hundred ninety-two days between being carted off the pitch in tears and making his way back on. Going through therapy at Vinovo, spending time alone in the gym, slowly making his way back onto the training pitch with the rest of them — all of it's kept him tied to Juventus every step of the way, but nothing feels as close to coming home as this.

Claudio barely hears the league's anthem ringing out over the noise from their supporters. He smiles at them, kisses his fingers and raises them up. The swell of the crowd buoys him, calms any nerves that might have settled in over the past six months. It doesn't matter how long he's gone. He'll always get to return to this.

 

 

 

 

Without looking over or saying a word, Leo reaches across the seat between them to touch his fingers to the back of Claudio's hand. A silent invitation— one Claudio takes, unclenching his fingers from around the arm rest and turning his palm over to grip Leo's instead. Leo pulses his hand once, twice. 

"Look at this," he says, voice low enough not to draw anyone else's attention. He leans closer to Claudio, holds out the magazine he'd been reading. It's open to an article on tourism in the Maldives, the photos gorgeous and glossy and probably the only reason it caught his attention in the first place. "Nice, right? We should all go sometime. It has everything you like — drinks, beaches, drinks on beaches."

Claudio cracks a grin and lifts his eyes from the page to glance up at Leo. He's just trying to distract him from the turbulence, fingers still tightly wound in Claudio's — he _knows_ that's what Leo's doing, it's painfully obvious, but it doesn't make it any less comforting. That was one of the first things he learned about Leo early on — he's sweet when he wants to be, in his own way, but don't you dare let anyone else know about it.

"You forgot food," Claudio says, trying for light and breezy but hearing the tightness in his own voice clear as day. "You know I won't go anywhere that doesn't have good food."

"Already thought about that." He flips to the next page, runs down a list of five star oceanfront restaurants. The airplane dips a little and Claudio tenses, looks out Paulo's open window one row ahead of them to see them shuddering through the clouds. Nobody else is reacting; Paulo and Pipa continue their games, Giorgio is fully asleep across the aisle from them. It isn't a big deal, Claudio tells himself, like he always does — it's worse in your head than it really is, but that doesn't stop him from gritting his teeth and breathing out harsh through his nose when they hit another bump. Just as he's starting to get prickles of dread down the back of his neck, Leo squeezes his hand again and murmurs, "Don't look out, look at me."

He does, tearing his gaze away from the dense cloud cover over Seville and focusing back on Leo's dark eyes, then the next page of the magazine. He can't expect Leo to do this every time they have even a mildly rough flight. He knows that's a lot to ask of anyone, especially someone as self-involved as Leo.

And yet, here he is, every time.

 

 

 

 

He'd asked him once, early on, during a flight to Poznań, why it scared him. They take dozens of flights a year for their jobs, a handful more for holidays, even more than that if it's the summer of an international tournament — at some point most everyone gets desensitized to the vagaries of air travel. He never gave Leo a straight answer to that, only asked him why he _isn't_ scared of speeding through the air in a glorified metal tube. Leo laughed. Shoved at his head. Ran his fingers into Claudio's hair and kept them there, rubbing one thumb against his temple, soothing even if he didn't understand.

It's a matter of control. Not having it, turning his fate over into someone else's hands. It didn't sit well with him then, it still doesn't now.

 

 

 

 

It's not easy — although, to be fair, nobody ever told him it was, and if they had he would've laughed in their faces. It's a huge injury to come back from. Many don't at all. He knew all along that it would be a slow process, even once he was healed and back to playing regularly; he knew he'd take a long while to settle back into his body and the way it needs to move on the pitch. Alessandro told him enough times that he had to change his game when he came back from his own injury. ("I know," Claudio reminded him, "I always watched you," which only served to make Alessandro's voice pitch an octave as he hastily told him that wasn't the point.)

But there's having that knowledge, and then there's experiencing it firsthand.

Claudio can't think of a way to describe it that isn't morose and melodramatic. His body doesn't feel like his own. He tries to push it like he did before, and it just doesn't go. His technique is still there, he'll never be rid of that, but he's not as pacy, not as strong. Everything from their medical team indicates he's back to full health, but he doesn't feel it. 

As the season wears on, dread begins to gnaw at the edges of his heart. This is his new normal, and he has to adapt, and he doesn't know if he can.

 

 

 

 

Six of them seeing all six Scudetti through, six of them forming the spine that's carried Juventus into a new era. It feels right, crouching between Leo and Gigi, feeling Steph's hand warm on his shoulder, listening to Giorgio and Andrea shriek at each other before the photographer tells them to smile. It feels monumental, getting to be a part of something like this. Something that doesn't happen all too often in football anymore.

"To seven," Steph toasts that night once they've all reconvened at Andrea's to continue the celebrations.

Gigi laughs low and warm, his arm loose around Leo's waist as it's been for the better part of the day. "Lunatic," he says so fondly, "Let's focus on six, just for the night."

 

 

 

 

He's ten years old when Juventus win the Champions League for the first time in his life.

It's his only gift of the year, birthday and Christmas be damned, two tickets to the final at the Stadio Olimpico. He remembers so clearly watching the penalty shootout from between his fingers, his father forbidding him from turning away and closing his eyes — he has to watch, he says, no matter what the outcome is, he has to watch. He doesn't realize it until many years later, how lucky he was to be alive for this win, to have a father as mad as him who would happily make the long train trip both ways just to see it through.

Right up until the day Deschamps calls him up for the first team, it's the happiest he's been in his life.

He's eleven years old when Juventus lose the Champions League for the first time in his life. And then again at twelve. And then again at seventeen, captain of the Primavera side, watching with more than half of his teammates and cursing the ground Milanisti walk on. And then— nothing. 

He's already lived through that particular heartbreak once before at the Olympiastadion, but somehow Cardiff feels different. Like it's been long enough, they've paid their dues, surely this has to be the time the curse breaks.

It isn't, of course. From where he sits on the bench, he's not a veteran Juventus player waiting to come on and try to turn the game in their favor — he's a child again, hands over his face, watching his favorite team lose.

 

 

 

 

It's not that calls from his father generally bear bad news — he loves his father more than anyone, talks to him daily, shares every dark and dusty corner of his career with him. Some have told Claudio that you shouldn't mix family and business, that having your parent as your agent is fine when you're a young man but eventually you should move onto proper representation. He doesn't listen to any of it. Still— when his name illuminates Claudio's phone over the summer, there's always a small sinking sensation that he can't help. 

"It's nothing bad," he says by way of greeting, because he knows his son. "Just something I thought might pique your interest."

Claudio stretches out long and languid on the deck of the yacht, flexes his bad knee. He glances over at Andrea, hat over his face and sound asleep. Not the most thrilling Ibiza vacation anyone's ever heard of, but it suits them. 

"Let's hear it then."

"Milan are planning to overhaul their team this summer." Claudio blinks up at the sky. Unsurprising. New ownership means new money means new blood. "It's an ambitious project. You wouldn't be the only one. And you'd be making double what you make now, easily. Maybe more."

It's new. He genuinely can't recall the last time an Italian club made an attempt for him. It's been so long, he figured they'd all realized his staying at Juventus was a foregone conclusion.

"I don't want to play anywhere else," he murmurs, voice as soft as possible just in case Andrea starts to rouse. "Especially not in Italy."

"I know," his father says. There's a gentle assurance to his voice — he knows the depth of what Claudio means by that. "It's my job to tell you anyway. It's a lot of money, Cla." He shrugs and makes a disinterested little noise. If it was about money, he would have left years ago. "Well, alright. I'll tell them you're not interested. Now we can just sit back and watch what they do this summer, eh?"

That draws a smile out of him. It's always interesting when a team decides to reinvent itself. They'll never come close to Juventus, of course, but still — it shakes the league up. It keeps things fun.

 

 

 

 

They're forced into so much time together throughout the year, some might think them crazy for spending their holidays together too. It's not that strange to Claudio. They're his coworkers, sure, but they're also his best friends — why wouldn't he want to travel and enjoy life with them during their off time? 

With the days winding down before they need to report for preseason, he manages to catch Giorgio in between familial obligations and spend a couple days with him in Tuscany, then pesters Gigi relentlessly until he admits he holed himself away on a remote island he doesn't care to name for most of the summer. Which is fine. They don't _have_ to holiday together, it's just nice to — and realistically, Gigi's always been the one least likely to take them up on those invitations. The man loves his solitude.

"Leo's with you, isn't he," Claudio grins into the phone.

There's a long beat of silence and the distant cry of birds. "No," Gigi says, "I came alone."

"Oh." That's all there is to say, really, because it doesn't make sense. Normally if Leo is hard to reach, it's because Gigi's hermited him away. The rest of the time, he's as easy to track down as the rest of them, as eager to spend his summer passing in and out of their lives. Claudio hasn't spoken to him since the they left Udine and the national team. "I hope he's okay," he finally says, and strains to hear any hints in Gigi's voice.

There aren't any. Only an airy reassurance, "He always is," before they move on to how unhealthily they've been eating during the off season and eventually hang up.

 

 

 

 

Claudio goes about the rest of his summer — Portofino with his sister, Forte Village with Paulo, a visit from Alessandro who wants to vacation for a few days in Claudio's own home — and listens to the same news from his father as every other year lately. No thank you, he would not like to move to England, or Germany, or the States. He's perfectly happy where he is. It's become tradition every summer, dividing his time between lazing in the sun and gently rejecting his usual suitors.

"You'd love Los Angeles," Alessandro says, muffled by his mouth pressed against Claudio's shoulder as they half-watch the Confederations Cup final. "And the football's not bad either."

"Maybe so. But I don't want to play there," he deflects easily. "You heard Pirlo's complaining. Erratic scheduling. Terrible pitches. Too much travel."

He laughs, tightens his arm over Claudio's chest. "Sure. All of that. And it's not Juventus."

"And it's not Juventus," Claudio echoes with a grin Alessandro can't see from this angle. He always did understand Claudio's singular obsession better than most, even though he left. 

Maybe because he left.

 

 

 

 

The sun dips lower, almost touching the sea now, and Claudio finds himself staring at it without really seeing. The bright and the blinding takes over his vision entirely.

"No he's not." There's only silence from the phone pressed against his ear. "He would have said something."

"I don't know," Andrea finally says, "Look it up yourself."

"He's not," Claudio repeats, doesn't end the call even as he pulls the phone away to open up his browser. A wave crashes, water rushing hard enough along the sand to nearly reach where he sits. He barely hears Andrea's far-off voice over it. It's all there, just as he said. A tweet from Palmeri. A photo of Leo in a car surrounded by Milanisti. 

When he brings the phone back to his ear, they're both quiet. Claudio breathes, clenches one fist in the sand. Breathes, watches the light fade fast across the beach. Breathes, feels the wind start to kick up. Breathes.

 

 

 

 

He starts writing the same message every few hours, deletes it every time. If Leo didn't care enough to tell him — any of them — then it isn't worth it. That's what he tells himself, and it works well enough for a few hours before he's drafting it all over again. 

In the end, he doesn't send anything at all. He remembers Leo, head held high and proud, proclaiming he was so _bianconero_ it was a matter of heart and skin for him. He remembers thinking, _but you weren't raised here, you don't really know_. He remembers pushing that ugly thought out of his head and reminding himself loyalty isn't something you're born with, not necessarily. He remembers it all, a sick and bitter rush of it up the back of his throat, and he wants nothing more than to remind Leo too. 

_You said_ , he keeps restarting. _But you said, you said, you said_. The problem with that: Why did he ever believe what Leo said?

 

 

 

 

It's a terrible and trivial indulgence, but one he allows himself anyway. He makes his way back to his hotel room, pours himself a glass of wine, tucks into bed and turns to Instagram. He ventures into the hashtags and finds Juventini pouring their hearts out for paragraphs at a time, raging at a man who isn't going to hear them. He reads more than a few that mention him, almost like a foil — _you know who would never do this?_ — and it doesn't necessarily make him feel any better, but there's something caustic and spiteful ringing through his heart. Self-righteous vindication, a pale imitation of comfort.

He drains his wine slowly and lets it wash over him — all of the ire of people who never knew Leo, not really. It's easier to sink into that, to be angry from a distance. It's easier not to think about the creases at the corners of Leo's eyes when he tries to roll over and gets caught in the cage of his gangly limbs in the middle of the night, the stupid pre-match rituals he goes through to connect with his inner soldier, how warm a trophy feels when it's passed to him by Leo. 

Felt.

 

 

 

 

Alessandro calls him in the morning — _you're fucking kidding me_ , he squawks, not an ounce of self-preservation masking his feelings, _I thought this was a joke!_ — and Giorgio in the afternoon. 

"He didn't tell you either," Claudio says, balancing his phone against his shoulder as he carefully folds up his clothes. It's his own personal tradition, during those last few days before preseason — how terribly unfair that their summer should cut short right when the sun is at its peak, when the rest of the world is still luxuriating in its lazy warmth. He takes a trip by himself to recalibrate, reflect on the season he's finished and set his mind firmly on the one ahead. He's done it since he was a young man, even if back then it just meant holing up in his grandmother's guest house for a few days — it helps, it centers him in a way holidays with the rest of them don't. 

But he should be with them now. For the first time, he regrets his chosen solitude. Leave it to Leo to ruin that for him too. 

That wasn't a question, but Giorgio still answers with a hollow laugh. "Obviously, no. I thought— I _just said_ —"

"I know." It burns through him, every kind and naive word Giorgio said to the press about how sure he was that Leo would never leave. They've all been so stupid, he thinks. So impossibly fucking stupid, Leo most of all. He moves into the bathroom to start packing his army of toiletries as he asks, "Have you talked to him?"

"Not picking up. He's probably busy."

Claudio leans both elbows on the counter briefly and closes his eyes. Busy. Right. Giorgio always assumes good faith. It's almost like a disease.

"Have you?"

And at that he laughs, drops his head down and scrapes his nails through his own hair before straightening back up. "No. He can come to me if he has something to say. I'm done."

"You don't mean that," Giorgio says automatically, and somehow he's the only person on this planet who manages not to sound condescending. Only soft and patient, and more than a little sad.

"I do." He doesn't. He wants to. Disengaging from the situation, from Leo, means cauterizing a wound, not having to think about it— but there it is, snagging in his chest anyway, tearing him open little by little.

After a long silence he manages to get out what he couldn't last night. "You don't just leave Juventus," he says, the words trembling in a way he wishes he could control. 

"And yet," Giorgio murmurs comfortingly, "People do."

They do, Claudio acknowledges that, he's seen more teammates come and go over the years than he can count, but that's not what he meant. People do leave. The ones who get it, _they_ don't. 

He can't put words to any of it. He tries, but they only congeal into a mass lodged in his throat. When he's quiet for too long, Giorgio tells him to go, finish packing, have a safe flight. Come home.

 

 

 

 

There's no one to talk to about it, really — Giorgio's disappointed but forgiving, and he reaches out to Leo almost immediately, reports back to all of them that he's well, he's settling in and getting ready to head to China to meet up with the team. Andrea's as upset he was on the day they found out, but as stoic about it too. If it comes up, he busies himself with his phone and doesn't engage. Gigi is the only one unsurprised, but no less affected.

Still. None of them are as angry as he is. As the days and weeks wear on, it feels like none of them are angry at all anymore. Claudio can't understand it. This isn't the kind of betrayal he can pick up and move up from in a week. Anger feels suitable; anger feels _comfortable_ , sublimating any other emotion that might come up into its slurry. 

Giorgio, ever the peacekeeper, tries to tell him that Leo's choices aren't a slight against _him_. 

And Claudio knows that. He absolutely does. It's not about him. It's about Juventus. But the two are so incontrovertibly tangled in his heart, _I am, Juventus is_ , it all amounts to the same hurt in the end. 

 

 

 

 

Sixty-two minutes.

He last sixty-two minutes on the pitch before he feels a familiar pain building up in his left knee and has to ask for the substitution.

Claudio sits on the bench for the remainder of the match while one of the medics straps a pack of ice to his swollen knee. He stares at the game, unseeing, even as Pipita scores a brilliant goal just a few minutes later. What a miracle it was to get the start in their season opener, he'd thought this afternoon. What a phenomenal waste.

He drops his head, cradles his forehead in one hand and blinks back the threat of tears. 

He never wanted to be this kind of liability. 

 

 

 

 

They can't say how long he'll be out, can't even give a rough estimate. "We have to assess it as we go," one of the doctors tells him as gently as he can. Doesn't matter, he might as well be telling him to pick out a coffin. 

The pain and uncertainty and frustration would be bad enough to deal with on their own, but eight days after the official announcement of his injury, his phone rings, and Claudio's sure this is hell.

He watches it on his kitchen counter, a staring contest with Leo's contact photo, until it goes to voicemail. Just as he's about to grab it so he can delete the message as soon as it appears before he has to listen to it, the phone rings again. Goes to voicemail again. Rings again.

He isn't going to stop. Of course not. He's always been irrepressible. 

Claudio's heart hammers against his chest as he answers with a curt, "What do you want?"

There's silence across the line, like Leo never expected him to pick up at all and was content to just keep calling until the heat death of the universe. Then a long, shaking inhale. "You fucked your knee up again?" He squeezes his eyes shut against it immediately. This is not the conversation he wants to have. There is no conversation he wants to have with him, but especially not this one. And then: "Who's taking care of you?"

He pulls a face. "Nobody. It's not that bad. Why do you care?" It makes Leo laugh, short and shocked before he goes quiet again.

"Seriously? Because— fuck. I'm not doing this now."

"When were you planning on doing it?"

"When I come see you, bastard," Leo snaps. "Somebody should be there so you don't trip and fall and break a hip."

It's not kind, not at all, but it drains some small bit of the venom from Claudio. He feels like he must have misheard. "You're not coming here," he says.

"Yes I am. I have two days off training, Montella's a joke."

"You don't _need_ to come here."

"Okay, sure. Argue with me to my face," he says, and hangs up.

Claudio curls his fist around his phone and bangs it down on the kitchen counter, a noise of wordless fury bubbling out of his chest. There's no one more insufferable on earth than Leonardo Bonucci, he's sure of it.

 

 

 

 

He tells himself he won't answer the door when Leo comes knocking, but of course, that doesn't end up being true.

He stays the full two days, doesn't seem to give a shit that Claudio really can get around just fine with this injury, it's nowhere near as bad as before. He still goes out to pick up food from the market, does Claudio's washing, spends an hour going through episode guides on Wikipedia to try to remember where they were in Mad Men. It would be painfully familiar if there wasn't still the divide between them — and they don't talk about it, don't breathe a single word. Milan doesn't come up. Neither does Juventus. Leo doesn't say he's sorry. Claudio doesn't make him explain himself. They're largely silent the whole visit, but they're there, Leo warm against his side both nights, arm curved lazily over Claudio's heart.

 

 

 

 

At the Christmas party, he has one too many flutes of champagne and nearly corners Agnelli with a whole slew of questions bubbling on his tongue. Is he still the player he used to be, or did he lose something when they reconstructed part of his knee? Is he spending most of his time on the bench to avoid re-injury, or is it something else? Does he have his place here, or is he living on borrowed time? 

All things he never thought he'd let cross his mind, but lately they've been on constant parade.

Instead he sits himself down at one of the girls' tables, between Martina and Barbara, leans his chin on the heel of his palm and chats happily with both of them about their season instead. "You all should come to my restaurant," he tells them as he gestures to the rest of their team. _I have a restaurant_ , he thinks blearily. _I have my home and my family and my whole life, right here. No one can take that from me, no one_.

 

 

 

 

"To be fair," Leo says, squinting against the perpetually sunny sky, "The Maldives were _my_ idea."

"Maybe if we didn't keep secrets from each other now, shit like this wouldn't happen," Andrea says breezily. There's no real malice to it, nor any to the way he shoves Leo down into the surf.

It's so ridiculous, Claudio can't even be angry about it— but he still only dances with Andrea as the new year draws closer, only sits next to him at dinner, only lays next to him on the beach. He and Giorgio both act as buffers, and they spend the lion's share of their holiday together but still never really talk about it beyond how is Milan, good, how is Turin, good. Good, that's all good.

 

 

 

 

After Leo scores on them at home, something shifts.

"Come over after the Coppa," Claudio finally relents when Leo won't stop telling him that he wants to see him, really see him. Talk, really talk. He's too tired to fight it, in the end. The long season of desperately trying to cling to first place and getting kicked out of Europe in the worst way barely has anything to do with it; week after week, month after month, he's no more certain of his future than he was at the start of the season.

It's there, sitting across from one another at his kitchen island, that Leo finally says the words he's been waiting to hear since July: "I fucked up."

"No. Really?"

"Can you— Jesus." Leo worries his lower lip between his teeth before he asks in a cracking voice, "Can you let me talk?"

Claudio makes eye contact with him for what feels like the first time in months, even with all the times they've seen one another. There are dark shadows beneath Leo's eyes, tension at the corners of his mouth. He looks as miserable as Claudio feels.

 _Good_ , he thinks.

"Talk," he says.

"I shouldn't have left," Leo says slowly, then had the audacity to look surprised by it — like it's the first time he's said it to anyone other than his own reflection. He regroups for a moment, raps his knuckles against the marble of the island before going on. "I don't regret it, I'm making it work for me, I just..." The words trail off before he drops his head, laces his fingers behind his neck and groans. He's never been the best with words, Claudio knows that well enough, but for once, he isn't going to reach out and save him. He needs to hear it in whatever words Leo can manage to dredge up.

Finally, he lifts his head to look at him again. His eyes are wet. "I get that you hate me, you're not the only one, but I'm not gonna disappear. So."

"I don't hate you," Claudio says immediately, like his intentions being misconstrued is more important than the apology lingering just beneath Leo's words.

Leo laughs and scrubs at his face. "You really act like you do."

"I'm mad at you. I don't hate you." His voice is softer than he wants it to be, and he can see how it washes over Leo. Fuck. "Come here," he says, and like that Leo's out of his chair, coming around the island to bury his face in the curve of his neck.

Claudio wraps both arms around his waist, pushes his fingertips beneath the hem of his shirt to rest against his overly warm skin. It doesn't feel better, not really, just compounds another layer of exhaustion for Claudio — both of them have made this needlessly difficult for themselves in an already difficult year. It sits on the tip of his tongue, _while you've been making it work at Milan I've been thinking I might need to leave Juventus_ , and he comes closer than he ever has to finally saying it before Leo presses his lips to his throat, then jaw, then cheek, and finally kisses Claudio properly for the first time in nearly a year.

It can wait. It can all wait.

 

 

 

 

Less than twenty-four hours after their final match and he finds himself sitting across from Agnelli. 

To be fair, he did this to himself. Decided weeks ago that he couldn't take a summer of uncertainty, not with this feeling nagging at him all the time. Asked if they could chat the day after the end of the season, before their well-earned holidays.

He takes a deep breath to steady himself and finally asks:

"Will I be here next year?"

In his heart, he knows how this will end even before Agnelli's face goes ashen.

 

 

 

 

When he tells his father, it feels like describing a break up that's been a long time coming. The threat of it looming at the edges of his consciousness doesn't make it any easier to hear. _It's not you, it's me_. It's not that he's performing poorly, it's nothing to do with him at all, it's simply that Juventus has outgrown him. Their future is taking shape, and there's no place for him in it.

Maybe it would be easier if this was because he was suddenly terrible at football. At least that would be something in his control. It's tempting to ask, to beg, for any explanation of what he's done wrong or how he's slighted them, because then he can work his hardest to fix it — but that's not how this goes, and he knows it. It's not something that happened, it's just something that is.

His father jumps to action, sets up a long string of meetings, says he'll go to bat for him and make them reconsider. Which is sweet, and what Claudio expected of him, but it won't help. He knows that as well as he knows how to run and kick. 

He thinks of Gigi making his way around the stadium, clutching at the hands of crying fans, thanking them, getting every goodbye he's deserved. He thinks of Alessandro doing the same six years ago. 

He thinks, _I won't get that_ , and then he calls Mancini.

 

 

 

 

 _Unspecified injury_ , they say. It doesn't sound particularly convincing, but given his extensive injury history, they manage to pass it off as legitimate.

It's not as if the matches he's going to miss are important anyway. A few friendlies to whet the palate before the World Cup. Nobody will think anything of his absence— nobody but Leo, the only one there, who texts him _What happened to you????_ complete with a smattering of sad emojis.

 _Not sure_ , Claudio writes back. Which isn't untrue. He silences his phone, pulls the covers over his head and goes back to sleep.

 

 

 

 

The smart thing to do would be to spend the summer quietly and methodically shopping for a new club. He isn't as hot of a commodity as he was a few years ago, but certainly there are some offers on the table he could look into. 

The smart thing to do would _not_ be to ask if he can still report for preseason under the pretense of keeping up his fitness, travel with them as a last round of goodbye matches. Not that anyone but him will know that that's what they are, but frankly, Claudio isn't concerned about anyone outside of himself these days.

The smart thing would be to push those childish impulses away and focus on getting his future back on track. He'll never get the send-off he wants because there isn't one that he wants at all; the smart thing to do would be to accept that, tear the bandage off and move on.

It shouldn't be surprising, what he chooses in the end.

 

 

 

 

The night before their first match in the States, Giorgio comes into their room and settles between them on Claudio's bed, his phone held to his ear the whole time. 

"I've got them," he says, holds up a finger when Andrea asks who it is. Then he's pulling his phone away, switching to FaceTime— and there's Leo.

"Where the fuck are you?" Andrea laughs immediately. "Looks like a prison."

"Stairwell," Leo says, his grin lopsided and nervous. "Only place I could get a minute alone." Claudio has no idea what time it is there, American time zones are a mystery to him, but he does know Milan have a match tomorrow as well and their captain should be in his bed, not huddled in a drab concrete corner.

Giorgio hands the phone to Andrea for a moment so he can adjust the pillow behind him and explain, "He said he wanted to talk to all of us, it couldn't wait."

"Bodes well," Claudio mumbles. "What is it this time?"

Leo looks up and away from the screen, draws a long breath. He still isn't looking at them when he speaks. "You're probably gonna hear about it soon, and I don't… I don't want fucking Tuttosport to be the first place you hear it from this time." 

_Good_ , Claudio thinks, _He learned his lesson_ , and any sharp-edged vindication he could feel about that gets sucked right out of him when Leo thunks his head back against the wall and says all in a rush, "I'm working with Marotta to come back to Juve."

He has no idea how Giorgio and Andrea react to that. No idea what Leo says next. All he can hear is a ringing in his ears, steadily growing louder and louder. Leo's coming back. Leo's coming home. Juventus has space for Leo, and he still has to leave.

Eventually Giorgio's free hand finds his knee to give it a firm squeeze, his first step back to reality. He can't be sure how long he's been silent or what his own expression is now. As he tunes back in he hears Leo going on about how he's well fucking aware the fans are going to hate him even more now, Barzagli, it's only the prevailing thought that's kept him up at night since he put this whole plan into motion.

"But I'm sure I can win them over again," he says, chest puffed out with bravado. "It's my new project."

"Are you hungrier than ever for it?" Giorgio teases, and suddenly the three of them are talking rapid-fire shit. 

Claudio forces a smile and a laugh at the appropriate moment. Says something about how it'll be good for Leo to be back in Turin, because that's not a lie. It will be good. For Leo.

He waits the rest of the call out, listens to Giorgio and Andrea wishing him luck and manages to parrot it too, but when it ends and the phone is down, he presses both palms hard against his eyes until he sees stars. All he manages to get out is a hissed swear before they ask if he's okay. No, absolutely fucking not, and as much as he'd love to burst both their bubbles right now and tell them exactly why he isn't okay, it suddenly feels like the most insurmountable thing to explain. Tomorrow they play Bayern. He needs to focus on that. He's afraid if he says anything now, he'll break down entirely. It's no small miracle he hasn't already.

"You've been getting on better," Andrea says, leaning over Giorgio to run a hand through his hair. "So it's gonna be good for you two, right?"

"Right," Claudio says, and laughs at himself, because he doesn't know what else to do.

 

 

 

 

Sure enough, the next evening every outlet's reporting the rumors.

As much as he hates him for it — and he does, explosively and bitterly, it's that rage that carries him through the whole match — Claudio does have to admit, it's better hearing it from the source than finding out by surprise on Twitter. Small fucking blessings. 

 

 

 

 

August comes, and he has no more clarity about what he'll do than he did in June. 

In a hotel room in Atlanta, of all places, he kicks out beneath the comforter on Andrea's bed, curls close to him and lets it all out. How he has to leave, he's known he has to leave for months. How if he's honest with himself, he's known this was coming for years. How he doesn't know where to go, he hasn't even let himself look into any offers that may have come up because that will mean it's real, and he'll have to make a decision. How maybe he won't go anywhere at all.

A thin sliver of light through the gauzy hotel drapes casts a glow over the curve of Andrea's cheek. His expression is wide open and somehow still unreadable.

"Please don't," he finally says, and— fuck. Claudio's never heard him like that before. Andrea, for all his many faults, has always been the most stalwart among them, the one who can carry the most weight before he finally breaks down. In one moment, in no more than a few seconds, Claudio's already overloaded him.

"I have to," he repeats. It's entirely hollow. If he doesn't believe it himself, how is he supposed to convince anyone else?

Whatever Andrea's about to protest with, he doesn't want to hear it. He can guarantee he's already thought every counterpoint himself. Instead he presses forward, closes his mouth over Andrea's, bites at his lower lip and drags his nails down his bare chest. If he demands enough, if he's rough enough, he'll get it back, he'll get what he needs.

 

 

 

 

He doesn't want to go to Maryland. Doesn't want to play the match against Real Madrid. He knows he did this to himself, nobody told him to go on their preseason tour and he could've pulled out at any time, but that was never really an option. He's just— tired. Not tired in the way he usually is come March, when all three competitions are compounding and they barely have a full day off. Not jet lagged, not even tired in the way he is after a double training day. It's a bone-deep exhaustion that feels like it'll go on forever, no matter what he does.

Waiting in the airport, his phone buzzes at the same time as Giorgio's and Andrea's. Claudio knows who it is before he looks, knows what it is before he opens the message. His stomach drops to his knees.

Only four words: _See you all soon_.

Just like that. With nearly no fanfare. "At least he told us this time," Andrea says into his paper coffee cup before pocketing his phone again. 

By now, Giorgio knows too, and he lays an arm over Claudio's shoulders without looking at him, pulls him in close. He lets his head hit Giorgio's shoulder and rests there, the divider between their two seats digging into his side. He's no less tired than before, but suddenly there's a visceral, burning need to play this match, be on that field. Anything to not go back home. Anything to put this off.

 

 

 

 

There's no denying the genuine, unfiltered joy scrawled all across Leo's face during his medical, his contract signing, his first interview. _Turin and Juventus are both home for me, and I'm delighted to be back_.

Maybe it's a year or two, Claudio thinks as one last ditch at hope. Maybe Leo just wants to come home for a bit before his inevitable next big adventure. Against his better judgment, he reads the full report — five years, it turns out, the foreseeable future of his career written out in black and white. 

He shuts his phone off hours before they head to the airport to begin their journey back to Turin. Doesn't turn it back on when they land and he's back home in his familiar bed, counting down the last nights he'll spend in it. 

 

 

 

 

Obviously there's no sense in thinking he can avoid Leo forever, but Claudio thinks he's earned the right to be a little nonsensical.

It lasts right up until after their first training session together, when Leo makes a beeline straight for him and kicks at his shins, demands his welcome back hug. "Even Paulo gave me one," he says with a devilish smirk.

"I'm sure he gave you more than that," Claudio deadpans and continues changing his shoes.

"Well, I wouldn't say no to that either." He's so light, so much more carefree than Claudio saw him last year — or the year before, come to think of it.

 

 

 

 

They end up in Leo's backyard — of course he never sold his house, Claudio doesn't know why he's even remotely surprised to learn that — with their legs in the unheated pool, enjoying the nearly too-cold water on their sore calves.

Claudio's been toying with the idea of not telling him at all. Tit for tat, he thinks; Leo never gave him warning before he broke his heart, why should he do him any courtesy that wasn't afforded to him? But in the end, he simply doesn't have the energy to be that vindictive. Now isn't the right place, not the right time, but there's never going to be a right place or time, so—

"I'm leaving Juventus," he says, eyes on the skyline visible over Leo's fence.

It's too quiet for too long. He kicks one foot in the water to cause a small splash, lets it ripple out before he chances a glance over. Leo's eyes are closed.

"Bullshit," he finally says, but it sounds entirely devoid of feeling. Like this isn't as surprising as Claudio thought it would be. 

Like everyone saw it coming but him.

 

 

 

 

That night he pushes Leo back against his couch, holds him there by his shoulders and rides him hard and fast until they're both spent, breathless, nails dug into one another and teeth on edge. It's a long while before either of them relax, and even then it's incrementally: Leo's palms sliding up and down his back, Claudio's head drooping forward to rest on his shoulder. 

When he opens his mouth, he tells him not to go. Let him talk to Allegri, let him fight this. Or if he does have to go, then just take over as a director — take Gigi's spot, it's not like he's using it in Paris. Fuck, Totti did it and that guy's dumb as a rock, how hard could it be? Or retire and become a pundit like Alessandro. Or a player-manager like Rino. There's plenty of examples in all of them about what he could do. He doesn't have to go. Just find a way to—

"Stay," Leo finally says. "This isn't fair. Stay."

He repeats it over and over, plaintive and hopeful, until Claudio cups his cheeks and kisses him.

 

 

 

 

With the captain's armband tight around his bicep, he slots the ball neatly into the net at Villar Perosa, hears the cheers from their crowd. They're close enough to reach out and touch, so he does, gives a few high fives before making his way back to center circle. 

Sure, it's not the Allianz, it's not taking half an hour to circle the whole of the stadium — but that's not the stadium he grew up with anyway. This unassuming plain grass pitch is the one he's been coming back to year after year since he was a teenager. These people are the same ones he sees around Turin. When they rush the field not twenty minutes later, he lets himself be engulfed by them, tips his head back to look up at the cloudless sky and tries to think of anywhere else that's ever been more like home.

 

 

 

 

Ending his contract is the best thing to do on both sides. For all they've moved on without him, they don't want to profit off of him — it would be wrong, Beppe says, and maybe Claudio's a hopeless fool, but he believes him. This way there's no rush to find a club. He's released, he can sign for anyone who wants him at any time, he can take his time to ensure the next step — whatever it is — is the right one.

Before he leaves Vinovo, he walks the halls of the youth sector one last time. It's empty, they're all out training. He stares at his kit, the number eight. Infinity cut short is still an awfully long time, he thinks. Long enough to feel lucky to have lived it.

 

 

 

 

Juventus is.

That's all. It is. It was before him, it will be after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i legitimately ran out of room for end notes so uh, see chapter two for the full thing, BUT IF YOU'RE NOT INTERESTED IN ENDLESS LINKS AND BLATHERING: thank you for reading! ♥


	2. end notes because i'm a monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> petition to ao3 to remove the 5000 character limit on end notes for people like @redandgold and i pls

\- his kit really does hang outside the youth dressing rooms! i can't find any posts/gifs of it, but it's a lengthy scene in the netflix documentary series _first team juventus_ if you like to cry.

\- sebastian giovinco and claudio came up through the youth teams together, were sent out on loan to empoli together, made their first team debuts in serie b during the aftermath of calciopoli together, and played together right up until giovinco left for toronto in january 2015. [they loff each otherrrr](https://twitter.com/MLS/status/1024799405910777857)

\- AWESSA...... le sigh. alessandro was juve's most legendary icon and was forced out of the club as his contract ended in 2012. there are parallels there to what happened with claudio, although they aren't mirror images. just enough to make me emo. [alessandro is claudio's idol](http://la-vecchia-signora.tumblr.com/post/146471553750/since-you-were-a-kid-alessandro-del-piero-was-your) and they were [pretty intense](http://la-vecchia-signora.tumblr.com/post/92531230845/claudio-marchisio-v-udinese-season-201011).

\- fun fact that has nothing to do with the fic at all, i just enjoy it: leo and claudio both grew up idolizing alessandro and started their careers playing as forwards because of it. claudio was eventually put into midfield because of his stature, and a series of hilariously unfortunate events forced leo into defense.

\- euro 2012! italy lost the final 4-0 to spain. chiello got subbed off early due to a lingering injury (and never should have started the match tbh) and then thiago motta, italy's final substitute, badly injured his hamstring and had to be taken off. they were left with ten players for the last 30 minutes of the game and proceeded to fall the fuck apart.

\- leo being a mess on [giovinco](http://danceinsidemyheart.tumblr.com/post/26427821876/2012-jul-1st-spain-italy-sebastian-giovinco) and [gigi](http://danceinsidemyheart.tumblr.com/post/26435703482/2012-jul-1st-spain-italy-gigi-buffon-tries) after the final. mans is a crybaby, don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

\- they really did offer the #10 to claudio when alessandro left! kill me!

\- world.... cup...... 2014. yikes. here's claudio's [banger goal against england](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rLydj_AV87M), but then in their final group stage match against uruguay he was sent off with a bullshit red. and then, well. you know the rest. suárez bit chiello and uruguay scored while the italians were protesting, and so italy were knocked out of the groups for the second year in a row.

\- i'm not gonna lie, i reread a lot of _fever pitch_ while writing this because... well, one, it's the best, but two, i feel like claudio is an obsessive juventus fanatic first and player second. that probably informed more of this than i meant for it to. anyway, the whole _you are juventus_ / _i am, juventus is_ reoccuring motif can probably be blamed entirely on nick hornby.

\- 2014-15 was claudio's best season with juve. he and leo (and tucu! rip miss u) made 52 appearances total for the club that season, more than any other player.

\- implied max/barza because they used to play together and max is THE ONE WHO TOLD HIM HE SHOULD BE A DEFENDER IN THE FIRST PLACE and it's a real ship, you cannot convince me otherwise, who's the juve scholar here? you or me? I REST MY CASE.

\- claudio tore his acl in a match against palermo in april 2016 that ruled him out until october, so he missed the end of juve's season and the euros. even after then, he's still never been entirely back to his full form. however, at least he documented his recovery [in only the way a true instagram heaux can](http://seductionperfection.tumblr.com/post/146168390619/the-im-injured-and-recovering-but-also-am).

\- in fact, please enjoy [claudio's extensive injury history](https://www.transfermarkt.co.uk/claudio-marchisio/verletzungen/spieler/44716) :T

\- [claudio in his sad walking crutches](http://la-vecchia-signora.tumblr.com/post/143119577690), i hate everything about it but if i had to suffer then so do you

\- [gigi dedicating the scudetto to him](https://www.football-italia.net/83401/buffon-%E2%80%98scudetto-marchisio%E2%80%99)!

\- leo DID score the final goal in the league during 2015-16 and it was [typical bonucci corner kick merchant fare](https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x4ahs15).

\- [barza](http://skylikethat.tumblr.com/post/146823614778/andrea-barzagli-in-tears-after-the-game) and [gigi](http://gigi-buffon.tumblr.com/post/146861446621/gigi-buffons-words-after-the-match-against) in tears after euro 2016.

\- [paulo and claudio on vacation in forte village during the summer of 2016](https://66.media.tumblr.com/bef8b8a7aecdc17ac3585c4419add598/tumblr_o9qv18mbZj1sbk6x5o3_r1_1280.png) :3c

\- claudio's first goal after coming back from his injury was in the ucl against sevilla, and wouldn't you know it, leo scored in that match too! [I MISS IT](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RreX7EtLBfw)

\- [CLAUDIO DOESN'T LIKE FLYING](https://twitter.com/ClaMarchisio8/status/1026317250247188480)

\- the six players who were present for juventus' six consecutive season wins were [gigi, chiello, barza, leo, claudio and steph](http://www.juventus.com/en/news/news/2017/the-old-lady-legends-six-men-six-scudetti.php). i am emo about how much has changed in just a year. [LOOK AT THEIR DUMB HAPPY FACES](https://i.eurosport.com/2017/05/21/2088571-43766630-2560-1440.jpg?w=1050).

\- i wish i was making up that quote about juventus being a matter of heart and skin, [but i'm not](https://www.football-italia.net/97686/bonucci-%E2%80%98city-my-heart-said-juventus%E2%80%99)! the timing, coming less than a month before his blow-up with allegri that ultimately led to him leaving juve, is pretty hysterical, in a terrible way.

\- leo's dumb ass threw a tantrum and left juve for milan in july 2017. claudio did in fact go on a tear of [liking rants about leo on instagram](https://www.around-j.com/marchisio-likes-bonucci-rant-instagram/). nobody said il principino wasn't a petty bitch.

\- [alessandro's reaction to leo leaving juve](https://www.fourfourtwo.com/us/news/i-thought-it-was-a-joke-del-piero-bonuccis-reported-move-milan) will always be the funniest thing to me. "it is a very, very amazing deal, i would not have thought about such a thing, BECAUSE I'D NEVER LEAVE JUVENTUS ON MY OWN ACCORD, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU"

\- tragically, right up until the bitter end [chiello really thought leo would stay](https://www.squawka.com/en/news/chelsea-target-leonardo-bonucci-will-stay-at-juventus-this-summer-giorgio-chiellini/958602#57ISUvIW4dY4gr4K.97). THEY WERE ALL IN THE DARK!! [except gigi](https://www.football-italia.net/105802/only-buffon-kept-bonucci-juve). yikes a million.

\- [juventus women did go to dinner with claudio at his restaurant](https://juventuswomen.tumblr.com/post/171146241843/the-team-having-dinner-with-claudio-marchisio)! :')) irl claudio and his wife run legami sushi in turin and it's a hot spot for everyone at juve. we do not talk about the decor.

\- [a very bbcc christmas 2017](http://ikercasiillas.tumblr.com/post/168935184041/merry-christmas-to-everyone-but-especially-to)

\- [claudio dancing up on barza on new years](https://andreabarzagli.tumblr.com/post/169187467038/marchisio-barzagli-dancing-to-sexy-back). i can't make this shit up. and yes, the four of them did all spend their holidays in the maldives together, although it was chiello + leo at one hotel and barza + claudio at another, which is. so funny.

\- claudio was called up for italy's friendlies in june 2018 but immediately pulled out due to an "unknown injury." sure jan.

\- leo's dumb ass realized the mistake he made and returned to juve in august 2018. the rumors started seemingly out of nowhere in late july, right as juve and milan were beginning their respective icc tours in the usa, and in a week he was signing a new five year contract with juve. just like with his departure, there wasn't much in the way of messages from his teammates — which isn't to say they weren't happy, it's more that he fucked up, he knew it, everyone else knew it too, and there was more focus on him proving his worth again. 

\- [QUIT LOOKING SO HAPPY TO BE HOME DON'T YOU KNOW CLAUDIO IS SUFFERING](http://ildirigente.tumblr.com/post/176563719246)

\- [claudio captaining and scoring the final match in villar perosa](http://la-vecchia-signora.tumblr.com/post/176927230190/juventus-a-5-0-juventus-b-ronaldo-capellini), the annual friendly between juventus and juventus primavera that marks the end of the summer and beginning of the season. say what you will about the way he left, but i can't think of a more fitting bookend.

\- [claudio's goodbye letter](http://la-vecchia-signora.tumblr.com/post/177269378750), but also [this instagram post](https://www.instagram.com/p/BmkrDAaFS5x/?taken-by=marchisiocla8) with the quote that fully and entirely broke me: "on the other hand, the number 8 is nothing more than the infinity sign looking up."

\- just for funsies, [the bbcc (+ pinso)'s last meal together](https://www.instagram.com/p/BnHjGXzF3Da/?utm_source=ig_share_sheet&igshid=1nkhqrnl9bexb) before claudio left for saint petersburg. THEY STILL LOVE EACH OTHER

\- this was... long and meandering, but i couldn't conceive of another way to cover 25 years of a career. if anything is unclear or you just want to know more about claudio, feel free to ask! IMAGINE ME SHUFFLING REAMS OF PAPER NOTES HERE, somebody please talk to me about claudio marchisio

\- anything this long is obviously gonna come with a [writing playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/brampersandon/playlist/02sF6frdBgxoYRBCd5I0Ei?si=SRVTWaHFQu-kxu0IkEY0Pw)

\- thank you for reading! ♥ feel free to hit me up on [tumblr](http://strikerbacks.tumblr.com) if you like to cry about claudio.


End file.
